Foreman didn't listen to House's words--didn't want to hear them. He hated it when House was right. Hated himself for being so goddamn easy for House to figure out. Even when Foreman was pushing inside House, fucking him so hard that House arched up to meet every thrust, House could still strip him bare and point out every last flaw that Foreman didn't want to think about. He didn't need it this way. He didn't need anything, except for House to stop thinking. Foreman was doing everything in his power to tear House's control down, and House just couldn't fucking shut up. All Foreman wanted to hear was the broken moans that he could grind out of House with each slamming, jolting thrust. And there were plenty of those. House was begging for it with every inch of his body. Muscles tightening, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open around every last one of the sounds Foreman wanted to hear. God. Yes. Fuck. Foreman. It would be so goddamn good, if only House wasn't trying to grit out some fucking analysis of Foreman's character or his sexual habits or whether it would be good if Foreman let House fuck him.
God, it would be. Seeing House like this, seeing him twitch and moan and scrabble his fingers against the sheets just to get more--Foreman knew what that felt like. And if House was half as good with his fingers or his dick as he was with his mouth then he'd have Foreman writhing just like House was now. Foreman didn't doubt that House could do it. He'd be analytical, no different than the way he tried to figure Foreman out the rest of the time. He'd be watching Foreman for every gasp and shiver, getting his own smug pleasure out of forcing Foreman to react. He'd have Foreman loving it. Working for it, mindlessly, whimpering for it. That was the fucking problem.
It was better being in control. The sweet, needy build of pleasure, all through Foreman's body, rushing through his veins, making him groan wordlessly as he shuddered forward into another thrust, all of it felt amazing, but Foreman could still think. His arousal was at a furious height right now, and he could use it. Revel in every sensation but never let go of what he wanted--to force House's orgasm out of him, hard and shuddering and desperate. Foreman didn't bother to answer House except with his body. Foreman could tell House how hot it was, how hard Foreman wanted to fuck him, and he didn't have to give up a single thing to do it. Foreman pushed in, as deep as he could, and paused to grab House's wrist, squeezing tightly to make House pay attention before he brought House's hand to his dick. Foreman wanted to see House come all over his hand, while he was watching and pushing House to want more, need more. "Show me," Foreman said, each word emphasized by another insistent, jarring meeting of their bodies. "Do it."
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God, it would be. Seeing House like this, seeing him twitch and moan and scrabble his fingers against the sheets just to get more--Foreman knew what that felt like. And if House was half as good with his fingers or his dick as he was with his mouth then he'd have Foreman writhing just like House was now. Foreman didn't doubt that House could do it. He'd be analytical, no different than the way he tried to figure Foreman out the rest of the time. He'd be watching Foreman for every gasp and shiver, getting his own smug pleasure out of forcing Foreman to react. He'd have Foreman loving it. Working for it, mindlessly, whimpering for it. That was the fucking problem.
It was better being in control. The sweet, needy build of pleasure, all through Foreman's body, rushing through his veins, making him groan wordlessly as he shuddered forward into another thrust, all of it felt amazing, but Foreman could still think. His arousal was at a furious height right now, and he could use it. Revel in every sensation but never let go of what he wanted--to force House's orgasm out of him, hard and shuddering and desperate. Foreman didn't bother to answer House except with his body. Foreman could tell House how hot it was, how hard Foreman wanted to fuck him, and he didn't have to give up a single thing to do it. Foreman pushed in, as deep as he could, and paused to grab House's wrist, squeezing tightly to make House pay attention before he brought House's hand to his dick. Foreman wanted to see House come all over his hand, while he was watching and pushing House to want more, need more. "Show me," Foreman said, each word emphasized by another insistent, jarring meeting of their bodies. "Do it."